At Atticus' heavy stare, Garvin Emberforge slowly halted his hammer.
"…."
A faint trace of sadness flickered through his eyes. He was clearly unhappy at being interrupted.
'Again…'
Atticus was beginning to grow accustomed to this scene. Garvin was almost always in the smithy, almost always with a hammer in hand.
Catching him in his free time was nearly impossible. Unfortunately, that meant Atticus inevitably had to interrupt him, which always earned him that same wounded look.
'And he looks like that…'
Seeing such a towering and broad shouldered man react like a child whose toy had been snatched away was a comedic sight.
"How's the progress?"
"Good."
Garvin motioned toward the large container at the side, where only a thin layer of glittering silver sand remained.
It had once been filled to the brim with will-conducting ores that Atticus had crushed, but now it was nearly depleted.
'Good.'
